I’m back. I spent the night in my own bed, reveling in the click of the overhead fan, the sound of the cicadas, and the ensemble piece from early morning birds, a joy for the jet-lagged. I am watching the light on the Chesapeake Bay and feeling glad to be home for the first time in three months. I feel like kissing the K-cup machine.The washer, built like an Olympic medal-winning weight-lifter, is using all the water it wants. I will put on the dryer. I am home in America.
I won’t be here long of course. This week, I have to visit the doctor about my knees, and persuade him to write a letter to the Peace Corps, convincing them that my arthritis won’t hold me back from service in Armenia from next March. I also need to pick up my birth certificate so I can apply for an Irish passport. I have dual British and American citizenship, but the UK’s Brexit vote has vexed me, and so, to show Europe I stand with them, I am planning to swap the British lions for the Irish harp in order to keep going with a plum passport. I was born and raised in Belfast, which turns out to be an advantage—who knew? Oh, and did I mention I also have to prepare for an interview with the American University in Beirut? With luck, I will be working in Leadership Development in Lebanon if I am not yipping it up in Yerevan. I am having a melting pot moment as I search for my Marigold Moment. More to follow.